


Beloved

by the_problem_with_stardust



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Historical, Derek calls Stiles Mischief, I get nothing done, M/M, No historical accuracy, POV Derek, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, kind of, sacred band of thebes, sorry - Freeform, sort of, why does Wikipedia exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_problem_with_stardust/pseuds/the_problem_with_stardust
Summary: A Sterek take on the Sacred Band of Thebes.





	Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever ended up in a weird place on Wikipedia at 3 am and had no recollection of how you got there? I went online to register for classes and somehow ended up reading about the [Sacred Band of Thebes.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacred_Band_of_Thebes) Then this happened. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.

“Derek.” The young man stormed into the tent, flaps swirling, armor clanking; a controlled tempest, vibrating with energy. His broad shoulders were squared and his proud stance projected confidence, every inch a warrior. Derek felt a stab of pride in knowing how much his charge had grown and matured over the past five years.

Rising from the armor he was cleaning, Derek straightened until his head almost brushed the canvas roof of the tent. “Good evening, Mieczysław.” The greeting was stiff and formal in the face of the younger man’s scowl.

“You were foolish today. Careless.” Stiles began pacing the floor of the tent. “What if I had been occupied when that dolt of a Spartan tried to separate your head from your shoulders?”

Derek sighed. This was not a new argument between them. “I cannot dispute the will of the Fates. When it is time for me to go, I will go willingly.”

Stiles let out a low growl, covering the space between them and catching Derek off guard. He barely had a chance to register Stiles’ hands on him before lips pressed against his own, fierce and possessive. Derek responded against his will, hating the voice in his mind whispering to him that none of this was real. In a day, a month, a year, Stiles would move on.

Derek pulled away, not meeting the other man’s eyes. “You are past twenty. Soon you will become a lover and be charged with your own beloved.”

“That is not what I want.” Stiles’ voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Derek glanced back to the armor laid out on the ground. “It is the way, Mischief.” He said it gently, the diminutive slipping out by accident. One habit he could never break.

“What if I decided I did not care?” Stiles sounded petulant.

They were still standing too close. Derek could feel the heat radiating off of the man before him. After a moment, Stiles dropped his head to Derek’s shoulder, letting the fight drain out of him. Derek tensed at the contact, taking a step back, but lifting a hand to Stiles’ cheek, a gesture far too tender for the mud and grime of a war camp.

“We cannot do this any longer. _I_ cannot do this any longer.” Derek knew his explanation was ludicrous and did nothing to clarify the situation.

Stiles fixed him with a piercing stare, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. “Tell me that you mean what you say.” He dropped his voice. “Tell me that you cannot love me as more than just my lover.”

Derek froze, struggling to find the right words. The silence stretched thin and Stiles stiffened. His training allowed him to keep his face free of emotion, but Derek knew his beloved and could see the heartbreak in his eyes.

“I never expected to live this long.” Derek sank down to the ground beside his armor, fingers toying with the leather straps.

Stiles was halfway to the entrance, but he stopped abruptly, listening. The tension in the tent was palpable.

“I assumed I would die in battle, wake up one day and find myself in Elysium, reunited with my family.” Derek’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “When you came to me as a wide-eyed farm boy, something changed. Perhaps you were not as hardened by the world as I was at your age.”

Derek looked up, eyes on the rigid line of his beloved’s shoulders. “You gave me something to live for.”

Stiles turned to face him, but Derek refused to meet his amber gaze.

“I am uncertain when _this_ became more than it should have been, but I know I have to put an end to it.” Derek took a deep breath. “I am old, Mischief. Go live your life, find a wife, start a family. If I do not die tomorrow or the next day or the next, then I will die a bitter old man. You deserve better.”

Stiles shook his head. “You do not get to decide what I deserve.” He was gone with a rustle of canvas, leaving a void of silence in his wake.

~.~

Derek opened his eyes, alone in the tent. Stiles had not come back to their bed during the night. With an ominous feeling prickling at his neck, Derek began to ready himself for battle. It had been years since he had fastened his own armor and reaching the straps over his shoulders was harder than he remembered. Old age seemed to be catching up.

Once he was dressed, sword hanging from his belt, Derek joined the column marching through the mud. Stiles was nowhere to be found. While it was not uncommon for a lover and their beloved to fight separately in battle, this was the first time in half a decade that Derek had taken up a sword without Stiles at his side. The feeling of doom only intensified.

This time, Derek saw the blow coming before it landed. He tried to intercept, but was too slow, reflexes dulled by fatigue. Pain spiked through his leg, but he managed to impale his assailant before he stumbled and fell to the ground. Darkness collected at the edges of his vision and Derek knew from the slowing of his heart that the Fates had decided. He was going to bleed out on this battlefield.

Although this was the end Derek had always imagined, once he was staring Charon in the face, he realized how desperately he wished it was not his time to go. In his last moments of consciousness, Derek’s mind conjured memories of the energetic farm boy who had made his days worth living.

~.~

Derek woke to a golden glow through his eyelids. He could hear Stiles’ voice somewhere close by. A smile started to tug at his lips. This was Elysium; he was home.

He opened his eyes to a familiar expanse of canvas. Stiles was standing at the foot of a cot that had not been in the tent before, conversing with a healer in low tones. After a second of confusion, Derek felt the pain hit him like a wall. He was still alive. A low groan escaped his lips and Stiles’ head snapped toward him.

“He is awake.”

The healer moved to Derek’s side and poked at the laceration along his thigh. It throbbed angrily and Derek clenched his teeth.

Oblivious to his discomfort, the healer turned to Stiles. “Your lover has lost an ample amount of blood. It will be some time before he recovers. Until then, make sure he rests.”

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure he is better off here than in the medic’s tent?”

Stiles was quick to respond. “There is too much death there.” Or more likely he remembered just how much Derek loathed the medic’s tent.

“Yes, Charon might confuse him with a dying man and take him by accident.” The comment was sarcastic and biting. The younger man’s jaw tightened, but the healer seemed unaware of his anger. “Have a good day.”

Stiles waited for a moment after the healer left the tent. “I am sorry. You are injured and it is my fault.”

“You cannot prevent Fate.”

“But perhaps I could have prevented that sword from reaching you, if I had behaved like a beloved should.”

Derek stared off into space. “Not everything is your fault, Mischief.”

Stiles shifted on his feet, standing almost completely still. The immobility was out of character for the young man who always exuded liveliness. He looked like he was going to say something, but they were interrupted by an unfamiliar voice outside of the tent.

“Commander Boyd would like a word.”

“Please, come in.” Stiles held the flap open.

“Good evening, Derek” In a band of only three hundred, the commander knew all of his soldiers personally.

“Boyd.”

The commander set a gentle hand on Derek’s shoulder. “You are free from your duty, my friend. You have served your people well and are an example of everything a lover should be.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Boyd brought his attention to Stiles. “It is uncustomary to make someone so young a lover, but since Derek is one of the best tutors, I would consider allowing you to assume the role.”

It took Stiles a moment to respond. “Thank you, Commander. I will let you know my decision by nightfall.”

Boyd nodded, pausing at the entrance. “Take care, both of you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Stiles turned to look at Derek, who adverted his eyes and said, “The commander has given you a great honor.” He shifted slightly in the cot and hissed at the pain.

Stiles was immediately there at his side, helping him move his injured leg. He could no longer hide the fear in his eyes. “Are you alright? Do I need to send for a healer?”

Derek shook his head. “I am fine.”

They had never had a problem with silence before. It stretched long and uncomfortable, making something in Derek’s chest squirm.

“I am choosing to return home.” Stiles broke through the quietness. “My father needs my help.”

Derek forced his eyes open, mind clouded with pain. His beloved was pacing the tent.

“Come with me.”

Derek turned his head sharply in surprise, pain shooting up his leg. “Mischief…” He had nowhere else to go, no family, no loved ones. He very well could end up as a cripple, useless to society.

“If you can offer me a convincing argument, I will not ask again.” Stiles murmured, almost too soft to hear.

Derek took a moment to gather his thoughts, pain still muddling his mind. “What will you tell your father? He will want you to take his place, to get married, and raise his grandchildren.”

Stiles made an annoyed sound. “You speak of what other people may think. What about you, Derek?”

Derek turned his head away from his beloved. “I will be thirty soon. And most likely unable to walk without a limp. I would be a burden to you and to your family.”

Stiles halted in his pacing, dropping to his knees by the cot. He reached for Derek’s hand. “Never. You could never be a burden.” The look in his eyes was softer than any the older man had ever seen. “I love you.”

Derek let out a breath. “And I you.”

Stiles kissed him, gently so not to jostle his leg.

“Come home, Derek.”

And Derek did.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [tumblr!](https://theproblemwithstardust.tumblr.com)


End file.
